


perhaps i'm aching for nothing that words can ever define

by glueskin



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Seemingly unrequited love, give lucia a raise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/pseuds/glueskin
Summary: haurchefant shares a tent with aymeric and estinien. everything is fine.





	perhaps i'm aching for nothing that words can ever define

**Author's Note:**

> like a week ago i asked twitter "what do i write" and leo said "haurchefant/aymeric/estinien" and zar said "one bed" which became "one tent" and then i accidentally made it lowkey miserable
> 
> im so sorry haurchefant. please. 
> 
> lucia is about to inject vodka directly into her bloodstream and then lock all three of them in a closet together
> 
> anyway as always catch me on twitter at @blackshrouds where ive been losing my absolute mind over this hell game. ill be back eventually with more ishgardian ot3 among other things im sure

When Lucia seeks him out to tell him of the mix up in sleeping arrangements, Haurchefant smiles and smiles and keeps on smiling through the urge to say _ Mayhap I shall just sleep in the snow _ and bury himself right there.  
  
Aymeric’s trust in this woman is unwavering. Haurchefant does not know why and also does not question it—if Aymeric trusts her, so shall he, but the look on her face when she says _ There is but one small tent for you to share with Ser Aymeric and the Dragoon _ is the sort one wears only when making plans.  
  
He is safe. Surely, Haurchefant thinks as he finishes his meager sharing of rations, staring out at the frozen expanse of the Coerthas and the distant hint of Dravania’s border—surely he has said nothing to imply his jests are anything but.  
  
He tries to remember the last time they had gone drinking together. When Estinien fell asleep in the middle of cards, burned out from days of dragging himself through the Highlands, and Aymeric had needed to carry the dragoon to his room at the inn.  
  
Perhaps Haurchefant had been too genuine in the way he had delicately undone the clasp of Estinien’s helm to loosen the way it dug into his flesh—or perhaps he had kept his gaze on Aymeric’s alcohol-flushed face for a few moments too long, allowing too much longing to fill his expression. Lucia, who holds her drink better than all of them put together, has a keen enough eye that she may have—  
  
No. Even if she had, she would not say anything. Lucia tends to mind her own business about these matters; she hasn’t even forced Aymeric and Estinien into a room together, as Haurchefant has been tempted to do on more than one occasion.  
  
Even if she suspects, she has no reason to give up his secret. He tells himself this until he almost believes it.  
  
“Haurchefant?” A sleepy voice tugs him out of his thoughts; he blinks down and Francel is looking up at him, face flushed from the cold wind. “I pulled first watch. Ser Lucia said you’re with Lord Aymeric and, ah…” he hesitates, always unsure of how to address Estinien.  
  
“That is right,” Haurchefant says, taking pity on him. Francel adjusts the quiver of arrows slipping from his shoulder, shivering.  
  
“Their tent is in the back,” he says. “You were helping with mine, so I was unsure if you saw. You hardly sleep last night, right? You should turn in.”  
  
Such a good boy, Haurchefant thinks, not for the first time. Francel worries about him in such cute ways—never in the ways he should. Even after seeing Haurchefant at his worst.  
  
Smiling, Haurchefant tugs at the length of Francel’s ear, making him squeak.  
  
“You are right, of course. I did not mean to give you cause for concern—I had best get some bells in before we need to move.”  
  
Francel flushes, smiling up at him nervously as Haurchefant draws his hand away.  
  
“I left some broth simmering on above the fire for you and the others who drew watch,” Haurchefant says as he straightens, turning away from the gloomy view he had been lost in. “Remember to take some for yourself.”  
  
“Ah, I will! Thank you—I shall make sure the others know as well,” Francel says, trying not to sound excited. Haurchefant’s mouth stretches into a smile despite himself—having his paltry culinary skills appreciated, even when it’s something as simple as this, feels quite nice indeed.  
  
Francel sees him off as he heads towards the back of their impromptu encampment; he passes a few of his men alongside several dragoons and temple knights still around the fire as opposed to in their tents, huddled close with thin cards in their gloved fingers, piles of rations stacked between them.  
  
Well. He leaves them to it; Lucia will put a stop to it if they get alcohol involved, or if they go too late in the night to be of any use tomorrow.  
  
The tent furthest from the rest is Estinien’s; far more worn than Haurchefant or Aymeric’s own would be, and smaller besides. Enough for two grown Elezen, but three?  
  
He grimaces. Perhaps Lucia is just having one up on him—is this because he ate all of the rolanberry tarts Aymeric had made several weeks ago? He thought he had won her forgiveness with the wine he had brought her.  
  
Still, Haurchefant slaps his hand on the side of the tent to get the attention of its occupants, and there’s an irritated groan and a quiet laugh in answer before the zipper is tugged open. Aymeric’s face, dimly lit by an oil lamp inside, greets him with a warm smile.  
  
“About time. Any longer and you would have had to wake us up to get in here, Haurchefant,” he says, moving back so Haurchefant can fit himself inside, Aymeric quickly closing the entrance once more so as to preserve what little warmth they’ve managed to accumulate.  
  
It’s not quite as tight fitting as he had expected—there’s just enough room for him to maneuver about to take off his armor, as the other two have already done. Estinien is sprawled out atop the sleeping bags already, the messy length of his hair a shock of white against the dark fabric; his armor is in pieces at his side, gleaming darkly alongside Aymeric’s own.  
  
Haurchefant has only seen him entirely without his armor a handful of times in the years they’ve known each other, and as always, he has to force himself not to look too hard.  
  
“Finally,” Estinien mutters, looking at him with half-lidded eyes, and Haurchefant has to remind himself Estinien does not look at people like _ that_. Not even Aymeric. Not intentionally. So Haurchefant doesn’t let his face burn at the sight, but there’s a heat in him regardless as he carefully unclasps his outer armor.  
  
Aymeric shifts to his other side, reaching for the clasps there, and Haurchefant bites back the sort of flirty comment he might get away with allowing himself to pass off as a joke on any other day. If they were not about to be sleeping next to each other…  
  
“Thank you, dear friend,” he murmurs instead, feeling relief as the weight of his armor is eased off his torso. He rids himself of his chainmail as Aymeric gives him a fleeting smile, moving back towards the sleeping bags.  
  
There’s shuffling and a quiet mutter; out of his periphery, he sees Estinien’s hands move to answer whatever Aymeric had asked, and he forces himself not to eavesdrop by dropping his gaze to focus on his legs as he removes his boots and metal plating.  
  
When he’s finished and left in his woolens, he looks back and sees Estinien already worming his way beneath the covers of what Haurchefant realizes is _ one _ sleeping bag, large enough to fit several grown Elezen—standard for when traveling in groups like this, of course, given the cold. But not something he thought Estinien would even own.  
  
...It’s probably Aymeric’s.  
  
“Hurry the fuck _ up_,” Estinien grouses, baring his teeth from behind the blanket. He looks far less intimidating without his helmet, given the state of his hair and the fact Aymeric is slipping under the covers at his side, looking highly entertained.  
  
Wait.  
  
Haurchefant stares at them—at the fact Aymeric has made himself comfortable on Estinien’s left side, meaning, the only place for Haurchefant is to Estinien’s right. He had assumed Aymeric would be acting as a barrier, given Estinien’s...dislike of any sort of physical contact from most people, especially when he is without his armor in such a manner.  
  
But Estinien seems unbothered, squinting at Haurchefant expectantly, and so he follows suit in climbing beneath the covers under Estinien’s glowering expression.  
  
Appeased, Estinien practically buries himself beneath the fabric—he must have pulled his legs upward, curling in on himself, because he disappears entirely beneath them. Haurchefant stares.  
  
“Don’t mind him,” Aymeric says, smiling fondly as he reaches towards the oil lamp nearby. Once Haurchefant has lain down, he douses the wick between his fingers; the darkness is immediately blinding.  
  
There is only the faint, distant fire barely visible through the fabric of the tent—not nearly enough to see with.  
  
Well. He is meant to sleep, after all. Haurchefant tries to close his eyes—he listens as fabric shifts, Aymeric laying down properly on Estinien’s other side. Haurchefant remains as far to the edge as he can, until his back is pressing against the lining of the sleeping bag and keeping him in place.  
  
Haurchefant has no idea how long he lays there, trying to fall asleep. He listens to Aymeric’s breathing even out; his eyes adjust to the dark, allowing him to faintly see the other man’s silhouette whenever he blinks his eyes open; Estinien remains out of sight, only the faint rise and fall of the fabric above him giving away the fact he hasn’t somehow vanished.  
  
At some point Haurchefant can’t fight it. Francel had not been joking when he had called Haurchefant out on scarcely sleeping the night before; he had taken a double watch so as to allow Aymeric more time to rest, given how overworked the knight has been of late, and so despite his best efforts sleep finally sinks its claws into him.

* * *

Haurchefant wakes up warm. There is—an arm around his middle, he thinks, someone pressed close, their face against his shoulder. Slowly he blinks his eyes open—it’s dark, still, too dark to see, but his eyes adjust enough to catch the silver-white of Estinien’s hair.  
  
There’s something gripping his sleeve loosely. Not just Estinien, whose arm is at his waist, but—he glances over, squinting through the dark, and though he can’t look beneath the blankets without causing a stir he knows it must be Aymeric’s arm resting over Estinien’s shoulders, somehow grasping for Haurchefant’s sleeve.  
  
His face burns. He feels not just warm but almost feverish, stomach churning in a way that’s almost nauseating. He can’t move without waking one or both of them. But surely—surely—  
  
No. This is normal. It happens all the time when sharing such a closed off space; the unconscious body seeking out the warmth of those nearby. Haurchefant hadn’t meant to do it. Estinien probably won’t kill him, but if he does, Haurchefant won’t fight it.  
  
He closes his eyes. There’s a distinct lack of sensation in his arm—it must be underneath Estinien, the weight of him cutting off the circulation. Haurchefant finds he doesn’t mind.  
  
Somehow, he manages to drift back to sleep. When he next wakes it’s because of the gradual return of feeling to his numbed limb, pins and needles making him shift with an uncomfortable groan as he blinks his eyes open. The tent is brighter, now, and Estinien is crouched above him like some kind of coeurl, guiltily glancing down at Haurchefant’s arm as Aymeric pins the length of his hair close to his scalp for him.  
  
“Morning,” Estinien mutters, and he looks—almost embarrassed. _ Cute_, Haurchefant thinks, and bites his tongue to keep from letting it slip.  
  
“Good morning,” he says instead, pushing himself into sitting position with his functioning arm. Just that slight jostling has him wincing as his needling sensation in his other arm intensifies.  
  
“Sorry,” Estinien grits out, startling him. He’s not meeting Haurchefant’s gaze, staring at his arm instead, an uncomfortable expression of flustered guilt on his face. No wonder he always wears his helm, if his face is as easy to read all the time as it is now. “I...am unaccustomed to. Sleeping near others. I…”  
  
His attempt an apology is absolutely _ adorable_. Even better when Aymeric, after finishing his work on Estinien’s hair, peers from behind him to say, “You should have seen him when we woke up. He was _ blushing_.”  
  
“I’ll fucking _ kill you_,” Estinien snarls before Haurchefant can say a word, and he’s blushing now too, red creeping into the almost unhealthily pale tone of his skin.  
  
Haurchefant wants to reach out and touch it—to feel if his skin is warm with the blood rising to his cheeks. He _ aches _ with it, and he wonders if Estinien would let him; he wants, just as terribly, to know what the curl of Aymeric’s teasing smile might feel like if he were to lean over Estinien’s shoulder and kiss him.  
  
He pushes it down. Buries it as deep as he can, as always, and forces a smile of his own to his face.  
  
“My,” he says instead of letting himself reach out, “Are the two of you always so..._energetic _ in the early hours of the morning?”  
  
He flutters his lashes in a way he knows they will both understand. Estinien seems to burn with the implication, snarling something utterly incoherent and making a rude gesture with his hands; Aymeric simply laughs, only the faintest hint of redness to his expression as he carefully moves away from Estinien’s personal space.  
  
Estinien is the first of them to get into his armor, fleeing the tent from the energy provided from embarrassment alone; Aymeric lingers still, helping Haurchefant with his own, and Haurchefant doesn’t allow himself to think about taking Aymeric’s ungloved hand in his and pressing his mouth to his open palm. He doesn’t.  
  
By the time they make it outside, Estinien is nowhere to be seen. Lucia stands by the gutted fire pit, her gaze lingering on Haurchefant and Aymeric uncomfortably long.  
  
Haurchefant makes himself smile as he always does, especially as Francel approaches, bleary-eyed and messy haired to greet him.  
  
He makes himself smile even as Aymeric leaves his side, even as the day drags on and their leads all turn into dead ends; he smiles still, pretending not to be disappointed, as Lucia fixes the ‘mistake’ in their tent distribution when they have to set up camp once more.  
  
If, in the tent he shares that night with several of his men, he falls asleep wishing for the sight of Estinien’s silver-white hair or the feeling of Aymeric’s fingers curled loosely into the fabric his tunic, well.  
  
Nobody is ever going to know.


End file.
